I Turned My Nose Up at Store Hours

(And Called It Integrity)

Before I turned my nose up at painting store hours, I was the kind of artist who said yes to almost anything creative. Murals. Holiday windows. Kid-friendly characters for pediatric offices. Caricature portraits. Game-room art. Wedding-invitation calligraphy. Pet portraits painted on wine glasses.

I was working two jobs and going to school, squeezing art into every open space I could find. It was not glamorous, but it was creative. It was mine. 

Then people started asking for something simpler:

Paint the store hours on the door.
Put the business name on the glass.
Make the front window look professional

A simple, steady opportunity was sitting right in front of me.

And I walked away from it.

I got precious about it. I told myself, I’m an artist. Why am I stuck writing numbers and letters?

Looking back, I wish someone had gently grabbed me by the shoulders and said, “Girl, grab a stencil and a level. You could knock this out in an afternoon and still have time for your ‘real’ art.”

Instead, I acted like practical lettering might somehow infect my murals with practicality.

It wouldn’t have.

It never does.

What I missed was the sweet, simple truth of building a creative business: those doorway jobs could have been reps, relationships, referrals, and cash flow. They were not a betrayal of my vision. They could have been the bridge to bigger walls, better clients, and more freedom to make the work I truly wanted to make.

A stencil. A Saturday. A little openness.

That “beneath me” work could have become a steady rhythm, one that funded the riskier, weirder, more sacred pieces of art I actually wanted to create.

And if this sounds familiar, you are in good company.

So many of us ignore the exact thing someone is asking us to do because it feels too small, too basic, too commercial, or somehow less artistic. Then we wonder why the opportunity never circles back around.

The Myth of the “Pure” Artist

Here is the gentle truth: the artists we admire most were not creating in some magical bubble, untouched by money, tools, patrons, deadlines, revisions, or other people’s expectations.

We just like the myth better than the paperwork.

Leonardo da Vinci worked through commissions and patrons. He made paintings, designs, studies, diagrams, inventions, and practical solutions. His surviving notebooks show experiments, observations, corrections, and an artist constantly working things out, not someone waiting for inspiration to arrive perfectly formed.

Andy Warhol built much of his practice around process. He used Polaroids, tape recorders, silkscreens, repetition, assistants, photography, and a studio environment that helped turn ideas into finished work. Those tools did not make the work less his. They were part of how he made the work happen.

Neither artist needed a perfectly romantic process to create something lasting.

They used what was available.

They used systems.

They used help.

They made the work.

Today, the tool argument has simply changed shape.

~A pencil, a stencil, a camera.
~ Photoshop ~ Preset ~ Template ~ Phone App ~ ai prompts~

And underneath all the arguing, the question is still the same:

Does using a tool erase the artist?

It never did.

You’re Allowed to Use What You’ve Got

Somewhere along the way, a small but loud group decided they were the gatekeepers of “real art.”

They call it protecting the craft.

Sometimes, sure, craft matters. Skill matters. Learning matters. Ethics matter.

But there is a difference between caring about the craft and using “standards” as a way to make other people feel too intimidated to create.

That kind of gatekeeping quiets down the beginner. The neighbor with a good eye. The mom doodling at the kitchen table. The photographer learning to edit. The artist trying a new program. The person with an idea who might have made something beautiful if they had not been made to feel like they needed permission first.

At what point do we stop handing our energy to the critics, the sleuths, the Petty Bettys, and the Dupsie Downers?

There will always be somebody with an opinion about what counts, which tool is acceptable, who is allowed to call themselves an artist, and whether your process is “pure” enough for them.

Listen when critique helps you grow.

But leave the purity tests behind.

That is not protecting art.

That is just noise dressed up as standards.

Everyone has their own tool.

Da Vinci had his studies and drawing tools.
Warhol had his silkscreen and studio.
You might have a stencil, a paintbrush, a phone camera, Photoshop, a preset, an AI prompt, or an old creative dream you have not touched since high school.

None of that disqualifies you.

It means you are doing what artists have always done: using what you have to make the work you can see in your mind.

Make the Thing Anyway

If you have been sitting on something, a painting, a photograph, a mural, a digital product, a hobby you are afraid to call “real,” or an idea you are scared people will judge, consider this your reminder:

Take the small job.

Learn the practical tool.

Make the simple offer.

Use the shortcut that helps you get unstuck.

Let the ordinary work support the extraordinary work.

Your art does not become less sacred because it has a system behind it. It does not become less yours because you used a tool. It does not become less meaningful because it helped pay a bill, build a client relationship, or make room for a bigger dream.

The stencil traces the line.
The darkroom holds the light.
The grid finds the proportion.
The tool helps carry the idea into the world.

But none of them ever held the vision.

That part is still you.

So create anyway.

The critics were never the ones doing the work.